One time is one time too many

Tomorrow, one of my closest friends is moving several states away to be with her new fiancé.

I should be happy for her, but I can't do it. She is an adult and more than capable of making her own life decisions. The problem I see is that she is relocating to be with a man who has been verbally, emotionally, and physically abusive towards her in the 10 months since they met each other. 

Without going into personal details, I will say that this relationship had been on-again, off-again, until he got physical with her and, for lack of a better term, smashed up her face. She had him arrested. After several months of trying to be without him, they got back together in a long distance capacity, and that brings us to tomorrow's move. 

I feel the way everyone (in my opinion) SHOULD feel about domestic abuse: it is unnecessary, inexcusable and unforgivable under any circumstances. And yet, as I slowly creep towards my mid-thirties, I have begun to notice a disturbing trend of tolerance among my peers. Some of the most strong-willed, independent, bad-ass women I know have begun to recently find themselves victims of domestic abuse in some form (or all forms, in the worst cases). 

When we ("we" refers to my peers here, the same men and women who are involved in the aforementioned abusive relationships) were growing up, domestic abuse was talked about. I am 31. I did not come of age in an era where abuse was an elephant in the room, kept behind society's closed doors and not mentioned for fear of violating personal privacy.  We were taught to SPEAK UP! if something harmful was done to you - to advocate for ourselves and for others who could be victims of domestic abuse or violence. As girls, we learned that there are resources and safe places where we could flee to if we felt threatened. Boys were taught that under no circumstances is it necessary, excusable, or forgivable to abuse anyone. 

I am sure that our parents and grandparents were thrilled that the public education system, as well as media and pop culture, were teaching us girls that we did not have to live in a world where it was permissible for a man to physically or emotionally harm us. A generation of respectful men and strong, independent women was being carved. 

So what happened to us? Why is it that everywhere I look, I seem to see men my own age turning their words, emotions, and hands on women? How are we still here? And why is our society still standing for it? 

On the surface, we aren't. Campaigns to stop domestic abuse are everywhere, and we KNOW that it's wrong. We run 5k road races and march in parades to make sure that the entire world knows that our culture WILL NOT TOLERATE abuse! We now educate little girls to understand that no one (and we mean NO ONE!) has a right to lay a hand on them without their permission. 

And yet, when I was lamenting the case of my friend (whom I mentioned at the start of this blog) to a male friend last night, he sighed and tried to comfort me by saying that we couldn't make her decisions for her and that she might just have to learn for herself. When I responded that I was concerned about how much more "learning" might occur, he said:

"Well, he has only hit her once, right?" 

I was stunned. I still am. This male friend is not a jerk or a misogynist. He is the kind of man who would stand in front of a woman to keep her from being harmed. 

And yet this is where we are. I see this type of attitude not only from men, but from women as well. The idea that it's NOT THAT BAD because he only hit her once. Or that there's a chance it was all a "mistake" and that he will never do it again. Or, the ever popular statement: "well, when he's good he's SO good to me, but when he's bad, it's really bad."

Please don't misunderstand me. I would never blame a victim of abuse for their circumstances. Manipulation is a tricky thing. It's all in the above paragraph - when they're "good", abusers make their victims feel like they are the most loved people in the world. Of course they do- if someone was horrible all the time, you would never stay. It is not a victim's fault that they remain a victim. Our society still does not do enough to facilitate escape and, perhaps more importantly, emotional recovery. I myself can not speak on the subject of a victim's state of mind.

Donald Trump was elected president in November and women across the country collectively tensed. What will he do to our rights, we wondered. How will his negative opinions of women affect his policies? I will be the first person to tell you that I have nightmares of what Donald Trump and his administration may do to us in the next 4 years. But we also need to think about what we are allowing to be done to us already- what our society has allowed to go on for as long as history can recall, regardless of political administration. 

We may think that we are progressive and enlightened as a culture when it comes to our stance on abuse, but we haven't even come close. The fact that some of my most talented, intellectual, beautiful friends believe that it is still better to be with a man who is abusive than to be alone means our culture needs to step it up. A lot. We need to stop shaming, pressuring and openly pitying women who haven't found someone to marry by the time they turn 30. We need to teach women to recognize specific early warning signs of abusive relationships (ladies, if he's jealous all the time, it's not because he loves you too much- it's because he wants to control you) before it's too late. We women need to actually start to believe that we deserve someone who is good to us ALL the time. 

We need to stop thinking that there are levels of abuse that are worse than others. Verbal and emotional abuse can leave scars that are even deeper than damage done by physical violence. Being abused by a person you love and trust is not an accident, something that can be overlooked as a one-time incident. NONE of it is ok, NONE of it is excusable, not even once. 

Because one time is already too much. 

No offense meant, but...wait a minute, no. Screw you.

Today I woke up, in my bed in the apartment that I rent for myself, in America. But it doesn't feel like the America that I have known for the last 31 years. It feels sad, angry, hateful. 

Like the fool that I am, I logged onto my Facebook page. There, I found Americans taunting each other, gloating and bragging about Donald Trump's presidential election win. The same people who have been posting for weeks and months about how they "just can't wait for it to all be over" are initiating posts that slam their friends for voting against the president elect. 

I spent most of last night and this morning crying, intermittently (I even burst into spontaneous tears while on a hiking trail), but I have now managed to corral some of my feelings into something semi-articulate (I think).  

If you voted for Donald Trump because you believed the "anyone but Hillary" mantra put forth by the extreme right, I can forgive you. You probably didn't do all your research, and if you did, I'm sure you were met with confusing media-produced contradictions about why, exactly, you are supposed to hate her- you just knew you should. It's ok. People make mistakes. Not everyone in this country cares enough about politics to read every scrap of info (sometimes, I fall into this category).

If you voted for Donald Trump because you are a lifelong republican, always vote along party lines, and either saw firsthand or were told the republican "horror stories" about Bill Clinton's presidency, I can forgive you. I'm a democrat, but I am not so close-minded that I refuse to accept that we are a two-party system. There wouldn't be democrats and republicans without people holding opposing views. If you felt that it was important to hold true to your republican heritage, I understand. 

If you voted for Donald Trump in spite of his inability to stop his mouth from spewing ridiculous, hateful things, I am coming close to forgiving you. If you have faith that he truly can figure out how to fix some of our nation's problems, and you believe in his abilities so much that you are willing to overlook his penchant for word-vomit, I will probably get past it. Probably. 

If you voted for Donald Trump because you watched his campaign, live streamed his speeches on YouTube, and caught all the instances in which he publicly expressed his views on Latino immigrants, Muslim immigrants, refugees, women, African Americans, homosexuals, developmentally disabled people and, (most recently) Jewish people, and you thought to yourself "man, I like this guy. He's a straight shooter and his views are really in-line with mine. I can get behind him as our president", then I do not forgive you. Now or ever. 

There is an important distinction between having a difference of opinion and being a good vs. bad person. People who choose to hate and oppress others based on their skin color, sexual preference, gender, or religion are, at least by my definition, bad people. There was a time in my life when I was willing to overlook what I deemed to be "character flaws" in people that I otherwise liked. I had friends and acquaintances who would occasionally let a racial slur slip from their mouths, or tell one too many racist jokes. I let it all slide, because at the time, as naive as I was, it seemed docile and relatively harmless. 

I believed it to be harmless for two reasons: one, I didn't actually think that these people were true racists, just guys cracking some jokes. Two, there was no immediate reason at the time to consider this type of speech dangerous. 

Until Donald Trump became the republican presidential nominee. 

Donald Trump, who is now the president elect of our country, has given a voice to racism, sexism, antisemitism, and many other forms of hate speech. In my (slightly) mature adult life, I have realized that any negative reference to someone's skin color, nation of origin, gender, religion, or sexual preference is hate speech. And this man lets it pour from his mouth openly, publicly refusing to apologize for many of the statements he has made. 

So if you, dear voter, chose Donald Trump because he "says what's on his mind", or because he is "honest about his opinions", then you picked him because he's a hateful, racist, sexist person, and so are you. And there are enough of you in our beloved country that, along with the other three aforementioned categories of Trump voters, this man has been elected. 

I'm all for unity, but I don't want a union with bigots. I don't want a thing to do with anyone in this country (or any country, for that matter) who believes they are superior to someone else because of their skin, birthplace, gender, religion, or sexual identity. 

Because you are bad human beings. And I will never forgive you for that. 

I Love Everything

In March, I went to Las Vegas for the first time in my life. A lot of my friends can't believe I waited this long, but they also seem to forget that I spent the first 30 years of my life on the east coast, which is almost as far as you can get from Nevada and still be inside the country. 

My friend, Josh, and I planned a trip (I use the word "plan" loosely here- all we did was book hotels for five nights and decide what time to leave for the 8+ hour drive) and everyone told us we were crazy, we were going to get into trouble, five days was too long to be in Vegas, and the worst- that we were going to come back married to each other (spoiler alert: we did not). Despite their warnings, I hadn't taken a vacation in a really, really long time and we felt like we deserved this. 

Fast forward to the end of the week, and I didn't want to leave. I loved Las Vegas. Gambling was fun, Cirque du Soleil was amazing, the food was delicious, the drinks were free. I had the time of my life. 

While we were there, another friend of mine passed through Las Vegas on his way home from a hiking trip. I guess he felt he owed it to himself to stop, so he hopped out of the car and took a photo of him and his dog by the iconic "Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas" sign. I asked him why he didn't stick around and he responded with something like "Vegas isn't really my scene." He has mentioned this several times since in conversations about my time spent there. 

This is not going to be a blog post about how I think Las Vegas should be everyones "scene". However, this friend and I have taken a few trips together, out into the wilderness, and seen beautiful, breathtaking scenery. I, too, hike at least once a week and believe that I have had some of my happiest moments when I was outdoors. I love the mountains, the trees, the rivers and pretty much all of nature. I often spend days plotting my next foray into the woods. However, I also really loved Vegas. 

How can this be? Aren't outdoorsy, mountain-loving types supposed to want nothing more than to save up their money and time off for the next summiting adventure? Those who love bright lights, casinos, and free drinks are supposed to spend their off days in bed with the room darkened, waiting for an acceptable hour to consume bloody marys, right? There are "outdoor enthusiasts", "party girls", "bar flies", and so many other labels that others give us (and we give ourselves). I don't understand why we all think we have to be so much of one thing. 

I'm 31, so I probably should have figured out what I am by now. It seems most people my age have- they are "mothers", or "adventurers" or "fitness buffs".  But some weekends I go to bed at 8:00 so I can get up early and hike 24 miles in two days. Some nights, like tonight, I binge-watch episodes of New Girl and bake brownies for my coworkers while hanging out in my pajamas for two whole hours before the sun even sets. Occasionally, I start downing Red Bull-based shots just minutes after leaving work and end up staying awake until 4:30 in the morning, smoking (legal) marijuana and drinking cheap beer with men old enough to be my father. 

Do I really have to choose? Can I like professional sports, liberal politics, exercise, nature, gambling, cocktails, art, sewing, six different genres of music, and fine-tuning my chocolate chip cookie recipe all at the same time? I say yes. Being "well-rounded" is supposed to be a positive trait. While I'm not sure it's a term I would venture to assign to myself, I guess you could say that it boils down to this: I love everything. (Coincidentally, this is something that my family also says, when explaining why they don't really need a Christmas list from me, and why I am always the easiest to buy for.)

I advocate trying new things. You might like them (or even love them), and maybe find a new hobby. If you're me, you might find six new hobbies. It seems dangerous (in this very fluid society that we find ourselves in) to be just one thing. Why not be everything, instead? 

Now excuse me, I need to go book my next flight to Sin City and take these brownies out of the oven.

You Look Like a Lesbian

I cannot remember how many times I have been told that I look like a lesbian. 

Typically, the instances increase after a fresh trim to my pixie cut, or when I go out in public after 9 pm in jeans and a sweatshirt. I once was told this by an (interested) female, when she asked me if I had a girlfriend and I replied apologetically that I did not, but that if I was in a relationship, it would be with a man. "But, you LOOK like a lesbian!" she exclaimed loudly in the bar.

Many of my friends will look at my outfits or how I have styled my hair on any given day and say things like "and you wonder why people think you're a lesbian!" Side note: I don't wonder. I know that our culture is programmed to make snap judgments based entirely on a person's appearance. Too bad for those making judgments that they didn't bother to actually find out one way or another. 

I joke about it with my friends too, so I am also a culprit. I will ask my sister if a certain outfit "makes me look like a lesbian" - but then I almost always wear it, anyway. Lately, however, I have been thinking a lot about this subject and have concluded that I have a huge problem with the term "look like a lesbian". 

First of all, the tone that is always used implies that is a bad thing to "look" like a lesbian, or to have people assume that you are homosexual. Admittedly, I am a single straight woman, so if I was aggressively on the hunt for a male partner, I might be unhappy with this assumption. But that is not up to other people to decide. I think it is indicative of a bigger issue within our culture that even my educated, liberal, socially-accepting friends think that someone "looking like a lesbian" is an amusing jab or insult. Guess what? A huge number of the population find women of all different looks to be attractive. That's right, I'm looking at you, all the straight men and gay women- everyone is into different things. It's a problem that it is overwhelmingly believed that I, as a heterosexual female, should somehow be ashamed of people thinking I am gay.

I've thought about this even deeper, though. What, exactly, does a lesbian look like? I can tell you that how I dress now is very similar to how I have dressed my entire life, and I have always been straight- so why, then, must I "look like a lesbian", when in actuality, I just look like Cait? Have you ever met two lesbians who looked exactly the same? How about two straight women? I certainly haven't. Also, shockingly, after 31 years of life, I still cannot simply look at a person and determine their sexuality. Gasp! 

Our culture assigns pretty strict sexual identities to type of dress and appearance. Generally speaking, if a man is dressed somewhat formally, in perhaps a nice shirt or well-fitted pants, others will question his sexuality. It is not considered masculine to care too much about ones appearance or clothing. If a woman dresses in a way that implies she does not care much about her appearance, people will also question her sexuality, assuming that only a lesbian would dress so much like a "man". This double standard is a huge problem in our culture, and is rooted in the idea that, in order to attract a "man", a woman must make herself look as different from him as possible- makeup, dressy clothes, well-coifed hair. Therefore, if I dress in a way that is comfortable for me, it will be assumed that I am trying to dress masculine, and the immediate judgment is made that I would only do this if I am trying to attract a woman. It is acceptable and even encouraged for men to do as little as possible with their appearance- we are taught that a man spending too much time on himself is sexually "suspect" in the hetero world. 

One of the people who told me that I "look like a lesbian" last night was, in fact, a homosexual man. I was wearing a backwards baseball cap and after his joking assessment of my outfit, he said "I mean, I'm wearing more makeup than you!" After responding with something incredibly snarky, along the lines of "lucky for me, I have perfect skin and don't need makeup", I thought about it and also added "and lucky for me, I don't fucking care."

To be defined as a straight woman upon first glance, there is long hair, shoulder length, bobs, up, down, braids, ponytails, dresses, skirts, leggings, skinny jeans, tank tops, low cut shirts, blouses, heels, flats, sandals, pea coats, puffy vests, something called a "cape-let"(you'll have to ask my best friend about that one), nude makeup, cat eye makeup, natural lips, Taylor Swift lips... The list goes on. Feminine style is actually quite broad, when you really get down to the details. However, add sneakers or a tshirt or a baseball cap, and suddenly, everyone is thrown. Any of these aspects and you are no longer seen as feminine. I wonder, do lesbian women get frustrated if they choose to wear a dress and someone assumes they are straight? Not because it is offensive to be assumed heterosexual, but because it is incredibly unfair that our culture says you must dress a certain way to be a certain way. 

I say screw it. I will continue to be a straight, sometimes boy-crazy 31 year old woman, and I think I'll keep politely fielding jokes about my appearance and the occasional come-on from a woman with my usual class and humor - hey, at least someone thinks I'm attractive! Who gives a shit if it's a male or female? 

I'll hop down off my feminist soapbox now (I only dig it out a couple of times a year, and only for issues that really concern me, but lately I have felt like throwing it in the backseat of my pickup truck- that's right, I drive a truck, care to comment on that?- and taking it with me everywhere I go), but I will also end with an excellent reminder from Oscar Wilde:

"Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken."

This is 31

In two days, I will be 31 years old. 

I have been having some (dreaded) feelings about growing another year older, but until now, I hadn't been sure how to blog about them. 

It started when I realized that, at my age, my mother had been married, produced two perfect children (I suppose this is up for dispute, but this is my blog and I never said it was unbiased), gotten a divorce, remarried, and was a few months pregnant with her third kid. 

Pardon my French, but holy fucking shit. 

Last week, I posted a Facebook status about how I was "adulting" by washing, drying, folding, and putting away my laundry all in the same day. Reflecting on what my mother was doing at my age, I started to feel somewhat unaccomplished and inadequate. What have I done in my life? What mark have I left on the world? 

I started evaluating. I have no children, no pets, no husband, no job that has lasted more than a couple years, and no home with a deed in my name. I drink more often than I probably should, occasionally eat fast food, ride my bike without a helmet (sorry, Mom) and sometimes smoke pot (relax, it's legal in Colorado). I'm overweight and underpaid, my fridge is almost always empty, and I haven't been on a real first date in over two years. 

But damn, am I happy. 

And you know what? So is my mom. I think if you asked her if she regrets anything in her life, she would undoubtedly say no, and that every decision she made lead her to where she is right at this very moment. That she wouldn't take back having me (even though I arrived to complicate everyone's lives when her firstborn was only 20 months old), or even marrying my father (after all, he brought her the two wonderful daughters I mentioned above). I know she has never thought twice about her second marriage, which brought her not only her third biological child, but also a stepdaughter who she has always considered to be one of her own.

Did my mother's life turn out like she thought it would? I'm sure not. When I was a screaming baby and my sister a screaming toddler, I cannot imagine she looked towards her future and envisioned divorce, blended families, or a bachelor's degree in English (which she achieved at age 48, two weeks after I received mine. I decided to include this because it is important to remind everyone that my mother is, indeed, brilliant). 

But things don't happen how we think they will. Life is not a textbook, or a map, or a users manual. When I was a kid, I always assumed I would get married and have children of my own, because that's what was modeled to me. About halfway through my own 31-year model, I realized I had choices, and I started making them. As many and as often as I could, I chose things I wanted to do, whenever I wanted to do them. I moved. A lot. I changed jobs, cars, and haircuts. I lived for change. 

All of these seemingly unconnected choices have lead me here, on the birthday-eve-eve of 31, realizing that you can do whatever is right for you and it will be just that - right. So I plan to ring in my 31st birthday with (really)short hair, in a tshirt (and probably a Red Sox cap), single as hell, at a house party in the mountains of Colorado, after a full day of bartending for $5 an hour (plus tips). It may not be everyone's ideal, but damn, am I happy. 

If this is what being "in your 30's" looks like, then please, bring it on. 

L-O-V-E: it's more than oversized teddy bears. Or is it?

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, I thought it might be an appropriate time to write a post about everyone's favorite subject, L-O-V-E.

For those of you who read this blog, this may seem like a slightly odd topic choice for me, given that I probably mention my long-time singlehood at least once in each post. For those who know me personally, this will seem like an extremely odd choice, given the amount of eye-rolling and fourth-grade-esque, finger-down-throat gagging noises I make when confronted with mushy things. (I'm not joking, I actually used the term "gag me with a spoon" within the last week.) 

In fact, many of my friends and family members might think I am cynical, jealous, or worse yet, downright bitter about love. This couldn't be farther from the truth. I love love. I also really love fancy heart shaped candy, so Valentine's day is a big win-win for me. 

This week, I finished Aziz Ansari's book, Modern Romance. Basically, Aziz conducted studies of focus groups and enlisted some well-respected relationship psychologists and scientists to help him piece together data about dating in our time. It is really hard not to see the results as shocking. For instance, cheating occurs in 70% of committed, monogamous, non-married relationships. Apparently, the number greatly decreases after couples say "I do", which I guess answers my time-honored question of "why get married at all?"...

Anyway, ouch. That piece of data tells me that there is just about a 2/3 chance I will be cheated on if I ever decide to make it past the one or two dates stage with someone. However, the book was generally pretty positive about the outlook for love in the modern world. More places to find it, more time to find it, more chances of not settling, more matches on Tinder. Wonderful. I closed the book and walked out into the wide world, ready for love to sweep me off my feet. 

Ok, no, I didn't (I was coming from the gym after finishing the book, looking smashing in a sweat-stained baseball cap, so prospects for love had to wait till after a shower). I did start thinking about love and it's many forms, and also how the Hallmark holiday that we use to celebrate it is a mere two weeks away. If you have ever seen the movie Love, Actually, you can quote Hugh Grant's character in the opening credits: "Love really is, all around." 

I have occasionally teared up after clicking a video clip on Facebook of a soldier coming home to his dog (after months of being gone), and the dog jumps into his arms. It's even worse when it's the guy's kid, seeing him for the first time in years. Waterworks, every time. Oh, love!

Or when an organization I support (such as the Girl Scouts of America or Planned Parenthood) starts a crowd-funding page to recoup money lost from pulled grant money, and they end up raising three or four times more than their original goal. In that moment, I love all those people who donate. 

When I tell the story about my mother and stepfather being married for 26 1/2 years, and that he popped the question after only a few weeks of dating (but not before he asked my grandmother's permission (this was 1989, not 1960, so that's a pretty big deal)), my heart just sings. 26 1/2 years of marriage and no one was injured or killed. LOVE, people. 

I work day shifts at a bar and restaurant, and much of my daytime clientele is elderly couples. I have begun to notice that often, a husband will stand next to the booth while his wife removes her purse and jacket and gets perfectly situated before he sits down, in spite of the fact that he had neither of those items to contend with and could have just as easily taken a seat first. Definitely love (unless she's just a tyrant, and after years of being beaten into submission by that same handbag, he has learned to be obedient). 

When I see all the Valentine's day merchandise explode into store shelves about two days after Christmas, I roll my eyes and make my standard gagging noise. I have often thought "if someone ever brings me a giant white teddy bear holding a fabric rose that says 'be mine' on his enormous pink tummy, I will kick them out of my home" (and honestly, I might. A warning to potential suitors: I live in a studio apartment and there is NO ROOM, I repeat NO ROOM for oversized plush). However, people who critique gestures of love are probably not very good at love in the first place. It could be the cheapest box of Palmer brand chocolates on the store shelf, but when someone buys you something on a day that is meant to celebrate love, it means they love you (and thought of you). It also means you have chosen someone who bothers to know what day of the month it is, which is always a good sign. (But seriously guys, spring for the Whitmans. You won't regret it, since the lady in your life is probably still going strong on her New Years resolution, and you're going to end up eating them anyway). 

To get back on a serious note, love is wonderful in all of its forms. Love (when mutual) is the only thing in the world that requires no effort to feel (and makes you feel good all the time). There are so many people in my life that I love, even if none are in a romantic sense. If you're single, try thinking of that on Valentine's Day, instead of dwelling in the despair of having no one to buy you heart-shaped chocolate. 

And don't worry, that shit goes down to 50% off the next day and you can buy it all for yourself. Something else I love: a good sale. 

If you are reading this and thinking it sounds like a shameless ploy to get heart-shaped candy delivered to me in two weeks, then you are correct. Send me a text and I'll give you the address.

It will be the one with the giant white teddy bear in the hallway. 

The Three-Letter-Word

I can't remember a time in my adult life (read: over age 15) during which I wasn't trying to lose weight, or at least thinking about it. 

I'm thirty years old, so that's a pretty long time to be in a constant state of striving. Even in college, when I chose to forgo working out and eating salads for late night pizza and 20 oz plastic wine glasses full of Black Velvet and ginger ale (in answer to your inevitable question, yes, I have always been this classy), I was thinking about my weight, or rather, my size. While walking home from the bars with my roommate on a frigid night in my New York college town, dressed in seasonally-inappropriate skirts, a car full of boys pulled up, rolled down their window, and cat-called something sexual (and lewd). As I had probably consumed half a dozen beers and shots, I screamed something back and flipped them the bird, to which they started to pull away, yelling "we weren't talking to you, Fatty!" Of course they weren't - the comment was aimed at my shapely roommate. I laughed it off and we stumbled home.

So why, 11 years later, do I remember every detail of this event? It left a lasting impression on me, a little whistle (no pun intended) in the back if my head, saying "you're even too big for drunk college boys to shout at". 

When I was a pre-teen, my older sister and I did not always get along, a fact that I am sure is shocking to anyone with siblings. I did terrible things, including reading her diary (only once, I still contend) and picking on various aspects of her teenage appearance (I once posted a drawing on her bedroom door that stated that it was the home of someone named "Zitty Zitface". Very original.) In response, my sister took to calling me the worst possible thing she could think of, referring to me simply as "Fat", as if it was my first name. I should note, also, that I was not particularly fat at age eleven, but even as children, we knew that there was absolutely Nothing Worse than being so. 

Again, this was a very brief period in my life that has never left my memory- not because it was cruel of my sister to call me a name (believe me, I deserved everything I got), but that the tiny three-letter word was the worst insult either of us could imagine. 

I had a huge crush on the same boy from eight grade straight through high school graduation. We were acquaintances, friends even, but it was widely known that I pined in nerdy, tomboy silence and certainly had no chance with this guy. During sophomore year, well into my tenure at a school that required us to play team sports (I was a three season athlete at the time, so probably in the best shape of my life), a close male friend told me that the object of my affection had mentioned me. I was shocked and couldn't wait to hear what he said. While reluctant, my friend finally told me that the boy had said: "she has a pretty nice body, I'm just not so into her personality". I should have been crushed. I should have cried myself to sleep and vowed never to speak to this guy again. Instead, I was elated. He thought I was physically attractive. Personality could be worked on, I remember thinking. I could talk less, use smaller words, be less eccentric or outgoing, be less like me.

Reading the above sentence really makes me hate my teenage self. 

Fast forward to a month ago, when a friend and I were discussing the need for more physical activity and healthy eating in our lives. I work with about twenty young women, so you can imagine how often these conversations happen. I don't know how we came around to it, but I found myself admitting out loud that I would gladly give a finger (or two!) off my left hand if I could just be skinny. 

Reading the above sentence really makes me hate my thirty-year-old self. 

I have spent much of the last ten years telling people I don't mind being single (true), that I won't settle for someone unless they love me for my zany, independent self (true), and that I firmly believe there is at least one guy out there who will think I am physically perfect exactly as I am (false). If I am being truly honest here (and it pains me to do so), I will admit: I don't really exercise and try to eat right to make my body healthier. I do it to make my body prettier. 

Ouch. 

I had a thought yesterday which, coupled with a fabulous editorial I read online this morning, inspired me to write this post. Here it is: what if I get skinny and nothing changes? 

What if I continue to be unhappy with my body, miss out on bread, pasta, french fries and dessert for the foreseeable future, fit comfortably into more stylish pants, lower my BMI to the point that my doctor stops telling me it's "something to keep in mind", buy a bathing suit that exposes my midsection for the first time in my life, and I remain single and (generally) uninteresting to the opposite sex? 

Worse yet, what if I lose weight and I'm still not happy with my physical appearance? 

We put so much emphasis on skinny being the ultimate goal, and I am no exception. I can't stand on my typical soapbox and preach to you about self love on this one, guys. I am confident in my intellect, personality, humor, and skills. But my life experiences, likely coupled with American society and the constant images of what is "attractive", have stripped me of (nearly) all physical confidence. 

But they say recognizing there's a problem is half of the battle, right? So I've got to try. It has to stop some time. I have no intention of throwing up my hands, diving head first into a plate of gravy fries, and canceling my gym membership (ok, that's a lie, I am definitely going to plunge into the fries at some point), but hell- we girls have all got to stop looking in the mirror and hating what we see. It's ruining us. It is hampering our lives and ambitions and absolutely keeping us from being our best selves. 

And as far as there being someone out there who loves me exactly as I am in this moment? That person had better start being me.